


dream a little dream of me

by tenworms



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Dancing, Domesticity, F/F, Fluff, it's just.. nice :"), middle-aged butch lesbians son scotch and york silk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenworms/pseuds/tenworms
Summary: York Silk and Son Scotch share a quiet evening at home.
Relationships: Son Scotch/York Silk
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:**

> york is a transfem butch lesbian and uses she/her, and scotch is a nonbinary butch lesbian who's on T and uses they/them! 
> 
> [this specifically](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j6TmogXhOZ8&ab_channel=phalenopsis1) is the version of dream a little dream of me that the title is quoting. thank you for understanding

Scotch holds their hand out and smiles. It crinkles up the creases by their eyes. She’s had a hand in Scotch’s smile lines, York realizes suddenly, and the thought makes her mouth twist up into a soft little smile of her own.

“Come and dance with me,” Scotch says, and laughs at the expression on York’s face. “What is it?” 

“Oh, nothing,” says York, taking Scotch’s hand and standing up. It always feels right, holding their hand. Like something falling into place. Like exceptionally well-executed joinery. Scotch’d laugh at her for thinking that, she thinks, and kiss her on the cheek. 

She loves them so much. 

“What are you thinking?” says Scotch, squeezing her hand gently. Their eyes are soft. 

York shakes her head. “I’m just happy,” she says, and it’s true. Tomorrow they’ll have to get up and go out and play again, and it’ll be dangerous, and one or both of them might not come home. But she can’t care about that right now. If this is the last night she’ll spend on the immaterial plane, there’s no better way to spend it.

Scotch puts her hand on York’s back and leans up, and York leans down and meets her in the middle. She feels Scotch’s eyes flutter shut as she sighs. Scotch’s lips are soft against hers, and their faint stubble brushes her chin, and she smiles. They kiss like a promise. 

Their lips are parted when they break the kiss, and York runs her thumb over her lower lip. Scotch leans into her hand, clean-shaven face against callused fingertips. “Let’s go dance like the bright young things we are,” they say. 

York laughs. “‘Bright young things?’” she repeats. 

“You heard me,” says Scotch, turning their head to kiss her palm. “Youth doesn’t last forever, you know.” 

York rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling: they’re both in their 50s, and their hair has been greying for decades. “That so?” she says. 

“M-hm,” says Scotch, raising her eyebrows. “C’mon!” 

She casts a glance back at their well-worn wooden kitchen table, at the empty dishes from dinner.

“No, come _on_ , I’ll do the dishes later,” Scotch says, and reaches up to cradle her face, thumbs gently over her cheekbone. “I want to hold you close. Please?”

York laughs. “Can’t say no to that,” she says, as if she hasn’t been difficult for the last five minutes. 

“Can’t say no? Can’t say no? Is that all it took?” Scotch gripes. “Jesus, woman, you drive me crazy.” 

“Mm, I know,” says York, and lets them tug her over to the living room. The light is low and golden over their heads. The windows are dark but for the amber glow of a streetlight. The carpet is soft under York’s socked feet, and it’s warm enough that her hands aren’t even cold. 

Scotch pulls out a record and gently places it on the record player. They wink at York as they set the needle down. The speakers crackle to life, the little pops and snaps of vinyl that sound like a fireplace, and Ella Fitzgerald croons above the low brass. 

“You sap,” says York, smiling delightedly. 

Scotch pads over and puts their hands on her waist. “You love it,” they say. The light catches their eyes and gleams warmly.

“Yeah,” says York. “I do.” 

They dance hand-in-hand. They can never agree on who should get to lead, so there’s always a few moments of awkward stumbling until they settle into a quick-stepping rhythm. They tilt their shoulders in time with each other, swing back and forth. York closes her eyes and throws her head back and just feels the music, tracks Scotch’s movements by their warmth. When she opens her eyes, she catches Scotch staring, their gaze so soft that it makes something in York’s chest hurt. 

“You happy?” says York, knowing the answer. She wants to hear it anyway. 

“When I’m with you? Always,” Scotch says.

And she knew Scotch would say something like that, but she feels so much love in this moment that she’s surprised she doesn’t start floating. “Yeah?” she says, higher-pitched than she meant to. 

“Yes,” says Scotch. 

York winds her arms around their upper back, pulls them close so they’ll rest their forehead on her shoulder. Feels like something falling into place, she thinks again. Like exceptional joinery. 

She laughs, and it vibrates warm and light in her chest. 

“What?” says Scotch, stepping back a little and looking up at her. 

York takes their hand and twirls them, catches them expertly and laces their fingers together. “You’ll laugh,” she says. 

“Well, now you _have_ to tell me,” says Scotch, lifts their hand to their lips, kisses York’s knuckles. 

York clasps their hand between hers and brushes over their alternating fingers with the pad of her thumb. “I was thinking about wood joinery,” she says. 

Scotch actually snorts with laughter, shoulders shaking, and they lean against York’s chest. “You’re _such_ a cliche, you know that?” they say, sounding delighted. Their voice is muffled against York’s shirt. 

York grins and presses a kiss to the top of their head. “You’re one to talk, Son Scotch,” she says. 

Scotch sighs and rolls their eyes. “Yeah, well,” they say. 

The song changes, and they both recognize it at the same time. 

“Is that—?” York says 

“It is,” Scotch says. 

Scotch rests their hands at York’s hips, and York rests her forearms on Scotch’s shoulders, and they look into each other’s eyes. 

“Stars shining bright above you,” Scotch sings, in time with the song. “Night breezes seem to whisper, ‘I love you.’” They smile, almost imperceptibly, as they say it. “Birds singin’ in the sycamore trees.” They’re no singer: they’re not quite hitting every note. But their voice is deep and soft, velvety, and it’s Scotch. So she thinks they sound wonderful. 

“Dream a little dream of me,” York whispers, and Scotch leans against her. 

They sway like that, temple to sternum, York’s hand cradling the back of Scotch’s head.

 _I shaped my body to hold yours_ , she thinks but doesn’t say, _and you to mine._

So they hold each other, dancing under the bookshelf York made to hold their cookbooks, Scotch’s black-and-white photos they’d developed themself on the wall, York’s spider plant hanging from the ceiling and trailing to the floor, their coats and boots side-by-side at the door. And Scotch smiles at her, and York smiles back, and she thinks she’s the happiest she’s ever been, and it’s the same thought she has every night. The sun might not rise tomorrow. But tonight, they’re in each other’s arms, and that’s enough.

**Author's Note:**

> the butterscotch revolution is NOW!! check out the other 2 fics by tam and mads >:) [[tam's]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006112) [[mads']](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006442)
> 
> also, credit for trans butch york silk goes to [kaylee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cryptidgay/pseuds/cryptidgay)!!! absolutely galaxy brain moment
> 
> thank you for reading!! if you feel like leaving a comment, it makes my day!! you can find me on tumblr as [@919](https://919.tumblr.com/) <3


End file.
